


THE RESURRECTION OF SELINA KYLE

by deaddennis



Series: hobbies and other deadly perils [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Accidental, BatCat, Borrowing freely from canon, Crack Treated Seriously, Domestication, F/M, Hobbies, Hurt & Comfort, Motherhood, POV Selina Kyle, Raising Damian Wayne, Selina Kyle-centric, Timelines shifted, all the batfam, also henchmen, alternative universe, batfam, knit a sweater, richard grayson - Freeform, save the day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddennis/pseuds/deaddennis
Summary: Selina Kyle didn't die saving Damian Wayne's life. She's going to wish that she did - it would have made things so much more simple ...
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Batman/Catwoman, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Series: hobbies and other deadly perils [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939255
Comments: 129
Kudos: 240





	1. Selina Kyle, Homecomin' and Lovin' It

Huh.

Who knew, right?

It turns out that getting shot is slightly dangerous to your longevity, hurts like a _bitch_ and also? Completely _screws_ your life up.

That gunshot. Those moments when the world shifted, clarity seared my soul, and life seemed to ebb away like a retreating tide.

I can close my eyes and _see_ and _hear_ and _feel_ it all again. It was close, wasn’t it? So close. I try not to think about it all. Typical Wednesday, right? Damian nearly _died_. Was nearly forced to- to- No. It was no big deal. And hey! _I_ nearly died. Not something to get worked up about. Nope. Not at all. Been there. Done that. Had Leslie Thompkins patch me up a few times. Done it myself too.

The only difference was the _location_ and the _reason_.

Still.

It was no big deal.

Damian Wayne is alive and well, so it was worth it. Life is so much more horribly, disgustingly complicated now, but he is alive. Not to sound bloody monotonous, but again: _it is worth it._

And because of that, I’m trying to be _really_ positive about this current situation I find myself in.

We’re on a private plane on the way back to Gotham. I’m thrilled. Going back to my old life? Resurrecting the past?

Sign. Me. Up.

Yay.

I _love_ that for me.

“Miss Kyle, may I suggest that you refrain from tearing the upholstery?”

Alfred Pennyworth, Butler to Bruce Wayne, raises an eyebrow at me.

 _Me_.

I relax my hands.

“I find classical music to be soothing,” says the demon, slouched beside me. “Perhaps you would like to listen to some?”

I glare at him. He’s lying – clear as day – but for some reason that only God must know, it is fairly impossible to come in to contact with Alfred Pennyworth and _not_ want to impress him.

Alfred smiles with approval at the demon who sits a little straighter and stares him down.

“Quite right, young master. Though is that the stirring tones of _The ImMOOgrant Song_ that I can hear from your ear buds?”

“Ha!” I say and jab a finger at Damian Wayne. _“Ha_!”

We’ve been forced to listen to _Inkle Dinkle_ ’s butchering- I’m sorry- _parodying_ of music approximately four hundred times. You would _think_ that he would grow _tired_ of it. But no, oh no, he hasn’t.

Bruce ‘The Batman Who Returned To Earth To Save His Son Had An Argument With A Certain Catwoman And Oh Look At The Time Gotta Dash And Help The Spandex Club Save All Of Reality and Time’ Wayne had his butler deliver a care package to the Slovenian Hospital I’d been patched up in.

Sorry, I should correct myself: Alfred _was_ the Care Package.

And now, my condition had stabilised and whoopdie-freakin-doo apparently Bruce had given orders that we should return to Gotham to recover.

 _That’s not so bad_ , I can hear you wonder. _The East End was your lair for years. It would be delicious to return to old haunts and skylines. Show Damian around the sights. Avoid the rogues and the heroes and let him try that really great DairyKing Snowstorm. He’d gobble that up. Ice cream is his weakness._

No. Again, sorry, I need to amend that: we were being returned to _Wayne Manor_ to recover.

My feelings on this little happening are _complicated._

“It’s genuine Italian leather,” Alfred says.

“Huh?”

“Miss Kyle, you have made your disapproval on our destination very clear, but I believe that there are better ways to show it than to destroy perfectly good – and _expensive_ – furniture.”

“Shiii-oot. Sorry.”

Damian takes out an ear bud and eyes me carefully.

“You do not want to go? But you spoke to Father on the phone? You agreed?”

I remember that phone call! It was _great_.

( _“Selina, Alfred has prepared a room for Damian.”_ A pause. Slight static. _“He has also prepared one for you_.”

_“Handsome, if you think-“_

_“Selina, please, at least until I return. Then we’ll talk. Until then – it’s the safest place.”_

_“Oh for the love of-“_

_Static. The interplanetary phone line had clearly experienced an outage.)_

“Kid, I … I think going to the Manor will be just great. Just perfect. Why! Your dad has so many acres of land and, and you know what?” I am _inspired_. “I _bet_ he would have enough space to keep a cow.”

“Weal- _Really_?” He clears his throat. “Do you think Father will approve?”

Alfred is looking at me with a bland expression.

I do _not_ shift in my chair.

I smile at him instead.

I want to leap out the plane.

I’ll find a parachute – Bruce will have them, definitely – and grab Damian and then we’ll just leap out and never have to deal with … _this_ again.

“At least two,” I say instead. “Two cows.”

“We should get Father’s approval,” says the demon-turned-angelic-son, a little downcast.

“Nah, he’ll be _fine_ with it!”

I don’t personally know anyone who sells cows in Gotham, but I’ll find one.

“Would the young sir like a cup of tea?” asks Alfred, in exactly the same tone he’d probably use for: _and would Miss Kyle prefer to be hung, drawn, quartered or merely hung?_

I grit my teeth. “Might I have one too, Alfred?”

“Of course, miss.”

This plane trip is shaping up to be an agonising. Literally. I’m not _healed_ yet. My face is a _lovely_ shade of bruising. An entire patchwork of colours. My abdomen is … let’s not talk about it.

It’s great.

Everything is great.

Peachy and furreakin’ _purr-fect._

(… ha.)

I’m sleeping _wonderfully_ and my dreams are peaceful and serene.

I don’t realise that I’m drifting a little because I nearly startle when Alfred passes me a cup of tea. It’s china, probably costs more than it should. I reach out to take it but before I do, it’s whisked away and a small saucer with some pills are presented to me.

“No,” I say.

I’ve been drugged, I’ve been mind-controlled, I’ve been … I _need_ to be able to _think_. These pills make me woozy. I need to be clear-headed.

“If they are made more palatable by being ground up with strawberry jam perhaps the miss would take them?”

“Alfred,” I say nicely – because Damian is sitting next to me and _watching_ us and that blog I skim-read once said that children are like _sponges_ and _oh gosh what has he sponged up from me?_ “Take them away or-“ I shut my jaw with a snap.

Best not to complete that sentence.

The seatbelt alert dings.

“Far be it from me to stop your suffering,” says the butler politely. “But you are alarming the young master.”

I glance at Damian.

“I am _not_ alarmed. However, it would be advisable to take the pills,” the traitor says. “You’d be more comfortable.”

“I am _very_ comfortable, thank you brat,” I say. “These wonderful and _expensive_ leather chairs are like being on cloud.”

“Kyle. _Please_ ,” he says and his green eyes are so big and there was that whole thing with Talia and well, _shoot_.

I snatch up the pills and gulp it down with scalding tea.

Grin smugly to hide the burn in my throat.

“Look at that! They’re gone. You can put the jam away.”

“I am relieved,” says Alfred dryly.

He returns to the seat opposite us and Damian starts listening to yet another terrible _Inkle Dinkle_ song and I stare out of the window at the clouds and drift into them.

We land in Gotham International Airport and are carried off by a dark windowed car.

Or at least, I think we are.

It’s all a bit of a blur but I know – instinctively – that Damian is beside me the entire time and so sue me, who cares if I can’t keep my eyelids open.

I feel _great._ Not a bit of pain.

I mean, I can’t really feel anything else.

(Horse tranquilisers? Have I been given _horse tranquilisers_?)

We go up a sweeping driveway and there’s an ornate door and a large entryway and it’s _empty, empty, empty._

I want to be back in Italy again.

I want it to be just Damian and I.

But here we are.

And then someone puts me to bed and I don’t fully come around until I wake up in the _most_ pretentious room I’ve ever set eyes on.

Wayne Manor.

I’m in Wayne Manor.

_Bloody hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've just picked up this fic and are thoroughly confused? I'm sorry! It's perhaps best to have a look at THE DANGERS OF KNITTING and then All Will Be Explained.
> 
> If you've arrived here from THE DANGERS OF KNITTING - welcome back! We're back and ACTUALLY IN GOTHAM. And so begins the true extent of my self-indulgence. 
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! Same bat channel!


	2. Selina Kyle, Locked In Temporary Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We will consider trusting you,” he says after a moment.

I wake and I resent it.

My body hurts so damn match that I want to swear and scream at everyone. Only there’s no one to really scream at. Which is a bonus, I suppose – if there’s no one there, I don’t have to pretend to be fine. I can wallow in my misery.

(I’m the queen of wallowing. I have decided that I am entitled to it: I was slashed, beaten, and shot at. A girl has to _process_ this kind of thing. Yes, I haven’t bothered wallowing before, but there is a time and there is a season and it’s _here_ dammit.)

My bedroom is empty and quiet and I stumble out of bed, my toes sinking into a thick rug. There’s a dressing gown – sleek and black – hanging from the back of the door. I shove it on.

Open the door, lean against the doorway and _listen._

Nothing.

Through the corridors, down the sweeping staircase.

Down, and down into the large kitchen.

“Ah, Miss Kyle. I trust you slept well?”

“Never better,” I say. And then I see the reason for my voyage from my room: “Hey, brat. Any jet lag?”

Damian is staring at me from the kitchen table. His hair is a mess and he is in his pyjamas. What a pair we make. I don’t need to look at Alfred to know that he’s probably thinking _by Jove, what a bad influence the cat is on the young sir!_

“The jet lag is tolerable,” Damian responds. “Try some of this tea. Sit here.”

For all his just-awakeness, he is holding himself very tightly; he relaxes as I approach and draw out the chair next to him.

“Alfred wouldn’t let me watch over you,” he mutters.

“How dare he,” I say mildly. “I suppose you tried?”

The stiff ‘yes’ tells an entire story.

“Hmm. Alfred,” I say. “I’ll take a cup of-“

A cup of tea is slid in front of me before I can finish the sentence.

“I trust you took your painkillers? I placed the correct dosage on the bedside table.”

“Yes?” I say, taking a hasty sip.

“Was that a question or an affirmative?” Alfred asks.

“She didn’t take them,” Damian says after a moment. He looks at me over his cereal spoon. “Tt,” he has the _gall_ to say. “You should take them.”

“But I _don’t_ -“ I start to tell him, but glance at Alfred. He’s staring with interest.

He raises an eyebrow. “I can pretend to be deaf for a few moments,” he says blandly. “Or shall I whistle? Will that make you more comfortable?”

“Alfred, I used to _like_ you.”

“I am, of course, heartbroken.”

I laugh at him and then wince because it _hurts_ to laugh, damn it.

“Miss Kyle,” Alfred says when I’ve recovered. “You are both safe here.”

And there is something in his eyes. Something solid. A promise. I glance at the kid sitting next to me, he is watching us, a quiet question in his eyes.

“Hear that, brat?” I ask. “Don’t tell a _soul,_ but the true power behind your father? It’s _him_.”

Damian studies Alfred.

“We will _consider_ trusting you,” he says after a moment.

“Thank you, young sir. After nigh on two weeks of your acquaintance, to hear such a decision - I am humbled.”

“Tt.”

Breakfast is served – by Alfred. He won’t let me cook anything and sends me a glance when I dare to raise the subject. My protests die and I turn to Damian and regale him with the idea of buying a cow and what should we name it? Can it be properly domesticated?

But by the time I’ve finished eating the perfectly made pancakes and washed them down with two cups of tea, I’m finding it hard to sit upright. I’d quite like to slide to the floor and lie on it; the tiles look nice and clean. You could probably eat dinner off of them. No harm in-

“Kyle.” A small hand pokes at mine.

“Hmm?”

“Pennyworth has procured some wool for you. With the change of the seasons, I believe it is customary to knit sweaters?”

“What, _now_?”

“Yes.”

Why-

I’m guided to a large living room with a comfortable couch and a roaring fire. A mound of blankets has been carefully prepared on it. Painkillers are pressed into my hands.

Shit.

_I’m being mothered! Treated like a damn invalid!_

“Kid! Traitor! The knitting was just a ruse! I detect the foul hand of Alfred Pennyworth!”

“Guilty as charged,” says the butler in question, arranging the pillows behind me.

“I’m leaving soon,” I tell him blearily, settling back. Fatigue apparently is akin to a truth serum. How brilliant. “And taking Damian with me.”

“We are merely waiting for Father,” says the brat from … somewhere to the side of me.

“And for the pet cow,” I add. “That’s important. I feel like that’s important. Isn’t that important?”

I blink and it seems Alfred is gone. It’s just me and the kid and a crackling fire. He is holding a ball of wool in his hand, frowning at it.

I nudge him with my foot.

“You okay?” I try, awkwardly.

It’s the first time we’ve been alone. Truly alone. Without a doctor, a nurse, a butler, or a glowering father near by.

“Of course,” he says, and clears his throat. “Kyle, we don’t have to wait for Lucille.”

“Eh?” Am I hallucinating?

“The cow.”

“You’ve _named_ it already? I thought it was a toss-up between Daisy or Duke.”

“Tt. We don’t have to wait for Father, either. If you wish to …” He hands the wool to me. “We can leave.”

He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. Ah, poor kid. He _wants_ to wait. He _wants_ the pet cow. (Ha! Up yours, Bruce.) But he’s willing to give it up for me.

Poor kid.

And the worse thing?

I’m tempted. I’m really tempted.

Not that we’d get far or anything; not in my stupid condition right now. But give it a day and we could call a cab and I’m _sure_ that some of my old stashes won’t have been found and then we could be _off_ and _go_ anywhere and _be_ anything but … but …

Damn.

I can’t do that to him. He needs stability.

Shit.

“Hey. Listen – we’ll wait for him. We’ll see what he says. He’s your father after all.”

“Yes.” His frown eases. “Naturally. You are stating facts I already know.”

“Don’t try sarcasm with _me_ , kid.”

He smiles then – it is tiny. The first I’ve seen in … well, it feels like a long time now. Kill me now (no, please don’t – it’s bloody painful) but, it’s worth it.

For two days, we live in comfortable peace.

(I let myself _breath_ a little but it doesn’t seem quite possible because I’m _here_.

In Wayne Mansion.

_His house._

In _Gotham._

…

Oh yeah. How _wonderful.)_

Damian doesn’t leave my side, and Alfred hovers occasionally or disappears entirely. Mostly, we stay in the living room.

(I don’t ask questions of Alfred. I don’t watch the news. I don’t want to _know_.)

“You could burn it, for warmth.”

I glare at the brat. Why on _earth_ have I kept him around again? “You are supposed to _wear_ it for warmth! _It’s a sweater_.”

Damian has the gall to hold up my work in progress.

“It is a _knot,_ Kyle. A tangle of _knots_.”

“It is _high fashion,_ okay? Freakin’ haute couture. You are going to _love_ it.”

“It’s for _me_?” The horror on his face is real. “ _This is an atrocity._ ”

“An _atrocity_?!”

“What’s an atrocity?”

We both turn quickly.

He’s tall, thin with black hair and hollows under his eyes. He stands awkwardly by the door, lifts his hand in a small wave.

“Hey Selina, um, hey Damian … isn’t it?”

I drop the knitting needle that had suddenly appeared, clenched in a fist.

“Who is this?” asks Damian, eyes fixed on the newcomer.

“This is Tim Drake,” I say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIM DRAKE!! WOOT WOOT! Thank you for all your kudo-s and comments!! I'm enjoying writing this - posting should be about a week apart until I've got the whole story completed and then they will happen more frequently. (I like to be ahead when I'm writing these.)
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! Same bat channel!
> 
> UNTIL NEXT TIME:
> 
> “However, I believe my father had just discovered the mother of his child and his past paramour fighting-"
> 
> “His past what?” I demand.


	3. Selina Kyle, Connoisseur of New Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s great.
> 
> I’m great.
> 
> I love it.
> 
> Pigs are flying outside.

“As you can see, the circumstances of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not even awkwardly.

“He didn’t think you were dead,” he says, coming further into the room. Selecting an armchair to sit down on. He perches at the edge of it. Keeps glancing at Damian. He’s studying him. Analysing.

I can see his mind working and it makes me itch to get away. Echoes of Gotham rooftops reverberate in my ears. Bloody Bats. We aren’t a threat. We _aren’t._

“Didn’t he?” I ask at last.

“No. He never stopped looking. Didn’t want us to know, either.”

That would explain his lack of ‘ _you were alive all along? Selina, my darling! I have missed criticizing your life choices and making disappointed grunts whenever you breathe in the wrong direction’_ at the hospital.

Also, it would explain the funeral. My funeral. That he didn’t attend. _I_ would have attended _his_ funeral even if I knew he was alive. (There’s something called _politeness_ and _common courtesy,_ damn it!)

“You speak of my Father,” Damian says suddenly.

“Your- oh, yeah. Your dad.” Tim looks at me.

I shrug. “It was a shock to me too, kiddo.”

“To all of us,” says Tim with great sincerity.

“Father didn’t inform you of my existence?” asks Damian stiffly.

“Bruce? No. He didn’t tell me.”

“Like that, is it?” I ask.

“It’s never changed.”

“To be fair to him,” I say _like a saint._ “ _He_ only just found out.”

“Two _weeks_ ago.”

Oh. Yeah. Damn.

“My father has issues with communication,” says Damian steadily. “This is Kyle's explanation. He has a brilliant mind but when it comes to emotional intelligence he either uses it ruthlessly to gain his own ends or is incredibly inept. He is,” says _Bruce Wayne’s_ son. “emotionally constipated and thus translates to communication.”

Tim’s jaw drops.

 _Children are like little sponges_ , that parenting manual said. _Ab_ _sorbing all the information around them and then actively making sense of it._ I'm not sure whether to beam proudly at him or stab myself in the eye with a knitting needle. 

“Of course, that is merely what _Kyle_ says. Kyle is biased but _believes_ she is correct.”

“Because I _am_ ,” I feel the need to interject.

“However, I believe my father had just discovered the mother of his child and his past paramour fighting-“

“His past _what_?” I demand.

“Wait, does he _know_ about-“ splutters Tim.

“-in front of the son he was not aware he had – if you factor in the present intergalactic war in which he is crucial in aiding the League to achieve victory - his mind would have been on other things.”

“Er,” says Tim, staring at the demon as if he was from another planet.

“…” I say.

“So,” says Tim eloquently.

“Does Dick know yet?” I ask abruptly, keeping half an eye on Damian.

“What? No. Not, not yet. He’ll- I’ll- Bruce sent us all an encrypted message. We weren’t supposed to _know_ it existed.”

“Was it one of those _‘in the event of my death’_ ones?”

“Yeah. I cracked it. As did Barbara. She’ll tell Dick this evening. She promised to hold off until I had assessed the situation.”

“Wonderful,” I say with a smile. _Shit,_ I think. They’re all going to descend. “What was the message like? Did he cry? Was he _emotional_?”

“Oh yeah. There was so much emotion.”

“You are both making jokes,” says Damian.

Tim stares at him a little longer. He looks mildly disturbed. He glances at me: “So. You look … great, for a not-dead person.”

“Cut the crap,” I tell him. “I look terrible.”

“Pretty bad,” he agrees, relieved. “I’ve never seen you look this bad and remember that time when the Riddler tried to do a Sphinx themed caper and decided to borrow some big cats from that cat sanctuary – and then the Getaway Rocket that you had to-“

“Tim? Stop. I _will_ come over there and strangle you.”

A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I try not to stare at him too hard. I tried to _avoid_ it. I tried to pretend that I’d done my best to save the baby birds but … I can’t help but feel _guilty_. I was just the neighbourhood cat burglar. Fabulous, yes. Philanthropist, _ha_.

And now there he is. Exhausted. Barely able to relax. A drawn look about the mouth.

Damn it. I don’t feel angry about the whole _child soldier_ situation anymore. The children have grown up. I just feel tired.

_Ah, Gotham. What glorious lives you allow us to lead._

“I am interested in this story,” Damian says.

“Traitor,” I hiss half-heartedly at him.

“She has told me many tales of the times she donned the catsuit but never of her failures.” He pauses, and then adds: “I am sure they are many and very interesting.”

“I’m going to strangle you. Both of you.”

Tim’s eyes are bouncing between the two of us. They linger on my knitting needles. “I have _so_ many questions,” he mutters. "So many."

“Tt. Rampant curiosity can be a fatal flaw. Proceed with the story.”

“You know,” I remind them. “I’m _right_ here.”

“Yes. You are,” says Tim. For a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of a young Robin who wasn’t as boisterous or brash as the first two, but was more serious, analytical … but a kid all the same. “And that’s great. I- I mean it. Gotham hasn’t been the same without you.”

“How _sweet._ Has Alfred given you pointers on charm?”

“Are you trying to distract him from the story? Drake, she is trying to distract you, do not be a weakling and _allow_ her to do so. Cease, Kyle. Let him tell the story of your inevitable humiliation.”

“My _what_? Tut tut, kitten, you’ve got _cheek_. You know what? I’m going to tell Bruce that a cow is a _terrible_ idea.”

He stares back stonily.

 _“And_ that you’re lactose intolerant.”

Oh yeah. _I went there_. I threatened his ice cream addiction.

“You wouldn’t _dare_ , Kyle.”

“Try me, brat.”

“There’s a cow?” Tim interjects. “What about a cow?”

“This Getaway Rocket,” says Damian firmly, magnificently brushing aside me and my threats. “Did-“

“Okay. Okay. Listen. There _wasn’t_ a Getaway Rocket involved. I was _pranked_.”

Tim has a slight gleam in his eye. “It did _say_ ‘Getaway Rocket’ on it.”

“Because you _painted_ it there. It was sabotage. But after a _brief_ incident in the aforementioned and improperly named _Getaway Rocket_ , I rescued the cats. The Riddler was persuaded that a Sphinx-themed ‘caper’ – did you really say ‘caper’, Tim? Really? - was … _amply_ punished and that is _all_ you need to know about it, Damian.”

“I would like to issue a formal complaint.”

“I would _suggest_ you retract that complaint.”

“You are a terrible person, Kyle. Drake will tell me the whole story later, won’t you, Drake? Are you staying for dinner? Do you _often_ stay for dinner?”

Tim shifts a little. “I actually have to go- I didn’t mean to stay, I was just dropping by to-“

“Dinner will be smoked salmon and spinach tagliatelle.”

“Gah!!!” Damian _jumps_ , Tim nearly flies off his seat, and I drop a stich. I mean, I’ve dropped a lot of stitches already but it’s the _timing_.

(So _that’s_ where Bruce freakin’ gets it from!)

Alfred Pennyworth raises an eyebrow at us but continues on without missing a beat: “It is silky pasta with delicately steamed greens, a touch of zesty lemon, and dare I say, the perfect amount of basil and cream cheese to whet even _your_ appetite, Master Drake.”

“Thanks, but I-“

“It will be served in exactly thirty minutes. Would you care for a drink?”

Tim’s shoulder’s slump. “Sure. A coffee. Shall I make it?”

“And do me out of a vocation in which I have served for the _entirety_ of your life and a great many years beyond _that_? Almost you tempt me.”

And with that dry, parting shot, Alfred leaves the room.

“I am not scared of Pennyworth,” Damian feels the need to declare.

And so, Tim stays and we talk – it’s a bit awkward at times. Stilted. But we learn that he lives in a penthouse, on his own. He’s in college. He’s working at Wayne Enterprises. He goes for a monthly Sunday roast at Dick and Babs’.

In turn, he asks questions of Damian and I. It’s great. I feel like I’m in some bizarre form of an interview. Hosted by _the kid I once tied upside down and left hanging from a fire escape._

It’s great.

I’m great.

I love it.

Pigs are flying outside.

“Kyle is an abominable knitter,” Damian is saying. “As you can see, she specialises in producing fuel for the fire.”

“Yeah,” agrees Tim. “That’s unique talent.”

“It is,” says Damian seriously. He looks at me. “I believe she is the only one of her kind.”

The brat says the sweetest things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile - I am still here! Thank you for reading and please forgive me for the delay in updating. It's been a busy time work-wise and life-wise and just everything-wise, really. I was a little nervy about this chapter but I've decided that at this point of the story, Damian wouldn't have that much animosity towards Tim Drake mainly because he's had some time out of thinking of JUST his heritage etc etc etc.
> 
> That's my excuse and I'm STICKING to it. 
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Damian chokes, Tim closes his eyes, and I hurl the first thing that my hand reaches.
> 
> A beautifully buttered slice of warm sourdough bread bounces off Bruce Wayne’s face and hits the floor.


	4. Selina Kyle and the Bruised Crusader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Handsome,” I say. “You look like you’re on your ninth life.”
> 
> (“Cat pun,” says Tim in a low voice to Damian. “I’ve missed those.”)

Dinner is delicious and yet I can barely swallow a thing.

“So are you still doing the Robin thing?” I ask, laying my knife and fork down.

Tim looks at Damian. Then at me, a sharp question in his eye.

“I am not a fool; my Father’s glorious history was given to me as a bedtime story,” says the brat, not raising his eyes. He is too busy shovelling the food into his mouth. Oh my _gosh_ , who _taught this kid table manners?_

Oh. Oh wait.

(It was me.)

“Damian, if you _continue_ to _shovel_ the food down your throat _like an animal_ , I will find a farmyard for you to live in. _Clearly_ you belong there.”

“I’m making up for your deficiency; your plate is still full.”

“That’s not a good excuse!”

“No, Kyle. It’s a _reason_.”

“Was _Selina_ telling you bedtime stories?” Tim bursts out, finally. “About _Bruce?_ ”

“Tt. I was referring to my younger years, before Kyle kidnapped me.”

Tim looks as though he’s suffering an aneurysm. “Wha-?”

“But if you must know, she reads to me at night. We have embarked upon _1984_ at present. What about you? Did she read to you?”

“Er, _no_. No, she didn’t.” Tim stares at his plate. Blinks at it. Poor kid. This must be a traumatic time for him.

Also, _has Damian swallowed a dictionary recently?!_ He’s become more eloquent. It is _terrifying_. It _has_ to be Alfred’s influence. Has to be.

“Hold- She kidnapped you?” Tim says. “Selina, did you _kidnap_ him?”

I flick an eyebrow. “ _Semantics_ , dear Tim. _Semantics._ To-may-to, to-mah-to. You say _kidnap,_ I say _rescue_.”

“It _was_ a kidnapping,” mutters Damian. “I am resigned to it now.”

“Does _Bruce-_ “ Tim eyes the elaborate dining room surroundings and drops his voice, leaning across the table towards me. “Does _Bruce_ know about this? Of course, he did. He _had_ to. Surely.”

“Do I know about what?”

Damian chokes, Tim closes his eyes, and I hurl the first thing that my hand reaches.

A beautifully buttered slice of warm sourdough bread bounces off Bruce Wayne’s face and hits the floor.

“An efficient weapon,” he says, his voice rough. “Pick up some of the cutlery instead next time.”

“Bruce.” Tim stands somewhat awkwardly. “How did it go? Did it work?”

“It was successful.” One hand is shoved in his pocket, the other rests on the doorframe and he stares at us all with an intensity that makes me wonder if he is either on drugs, having a revelation about life, or suspects us _all_ of murder. He hasn’t been able to shave recently, clearly. If he told me that he had been dragged through a bush, thrown off a cliff and then trampled by a stampede of alien buffalo … I would believe him.

“Selina,” he says. “Damian.”

“Father.”

What, are we just saying each other’s names now?

“Handsome,” I say. “You look like you’re on your ninth life.”

(“Cat pun,” says Tim in a low voice to Damian. “I’ve missed those.”)

“And you look … better.”

Yeah, well, last time he saw me I was _probably_ high on pain-medication with a battered face and body and a thousand stitches. Also, I was wearing a hospital gown. Anything after that _has_ to be an improvement.

Conversation peers into the room and backs away slowly.

Silence.

Alfred appears at his elbow.

“There you are, sir. As touching as it would be to have a family meal may I suggest that you retire to bed?”

“No, I need to debrief Tim.”

The man is _holding_ the doorframe so he doesn’t topple over. Idiot. Does he _think_ he is some kind of meta-human?

Alfred meets my gaze over Bruce’s shoulder. He wants me to-

No.

Surely not.

His eyes – did his eyes just _narrow_ at me.

I shoot him a glare. Damnation. _Why me?_

“Bruce, debrief Tim in the morning. I have a sudden and unexpected need-“ Another glare at Alfred-may-he-lose-all-his-hair-and-his-tea-overbrew “-to rest. Perhaps you could escort me up the stairs. I find taking heroic bullet wounds to be so very distressing.”

And now everyone is staring at me.

I grit my teeth.

Smile.

See the problem with doing a good deed? It sucks. It’s terrible. 0/10 would _not_ do again. I chance a look at Tim. There’s a knowing look on his face.

A knowing look …

_Bloody hell! Does he think-_

I look at Damian.

His eyes are narrowed. I can _hear_ his brain thinking.

Bruce clears his throat. “Of course.”

He walks to my side. You can hear his footfalls on the carpet. I debate taking my fork and jamming it in my eye. No. _His_ eye, _and then_ mine.

He is behind my chair now. He draws it out.

I stand.

He offers his hand.

I stare at it.

(Are those burns? Are those bruises? His skin is almost _grey_ with exhaustion.)

Look up into his face.

(This is surreal. I’m not dead anymore. I’m alive. I’m in Gotham. I’m in Wayne Manor. And the Dark Crusader is in front of me. Ah, _life_. What a shit-show.)

Take his hand.

We exit the room.

I toss a _goodbye_ to Tim over my shoulder. I don’t tell Damian to behave; he’d ignore me if I did.

We make an odd pair as we go up the staircase. He is _determined_ not to show his fatigue. (His knuckles are white on the banisters.) I am determined not to show how much like vomiting I feel. (A grim smile sticks on my mouth.)

“I’m surprised you stayed,” he says when we reach the top.

“Standing?” I ask. “No mystique there, Handsome. Much in the same way you are – sheer force of will.”

“No. _Here_.”

I let my smile drop from my face. “Are we really going to have this conversation now?”

“We will have to have it soon. Amidst other things.”

“Wow. Excellent timing. This is what is going to happen, _Bruce._ You are going to bed. No- don’t interrupt. You are going to _rest_. When was the last time you slept? Was there time on whatever distant planet you’d buggered off to do _League business_ on?”

“Intergalactic war,” he corrects me. “We won.” A pause. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you just _joke?_ Oh shit. You’re going to go and _sleep_.”

“What are you doing, Selina?” he asks after a long moment.

“Alfred wants you to rest,” I say. “Ergo, you’re going to.”

“Do I need to ask if you’ll both be here when I wake up?”

I don’t fold my arms, but I do flick up an eyebrow. “Are you asking me if I’ll take _your son_ away? After I’ve stayed put like a spayed and domesticated housecat _in your home for three days_? After I stayed in the hospital for _two weeks drugged with enough pain med to fell a freakin’ elephant?_ You know what, Handsome? _Screw you_.”

He looks … taken aback? Who knows? I’m too tired to work it out.

My shoulders slump. I want to sink to the floor and just _be._

“Look, just go and _sleep_. Damian will be here in the morning.”

He doesn’t move.

He just says: “And you?” and looks into my eyes like I’m a dictionary and he’s an etymologist.

“Oh for the- Do I look like I’m going to go crawling out of a window?”

“You could. If you wanted to.”

I glare at him. He has a point. But really: “ _Go to bed_.”

He must hear something else in my answer, because he says: “that’ll do.” And then he turns and walks down the hallway.

“You should read him a bedtime story,” suggests Damian.

I look down the stairs; I’m not even surprised he followed us.

“You know,” I say, leaning against the wall. “I don’t _think_ 1984 is exactly the bedtime story he needs right now.”

“I do not understand why; it is very educational.”

“You _would_ think that,” I say. “It would just further depress him. He’d brood for days. Come on – let’s go and finish dinner.”

Green eyes stare up at me.

“You are tired, Kyle,” he says. “You should sleep too.”

Thank God.

I’d have endured dinner for him _and_ read a chapter from 1984 but I’m not at all regretful when I stagger to my bedroom and gingerly climb into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNN an update - the last one before Christmas. Christmas may look very different this year, but in spite of that, I hope you have a really excellent holiday.
> 
> Thank you - as always, for reading, for kudo-ing, and for commenting. 
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time, same bat channel.
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “That isn’t fair, Selina,” he says finally. “You could have given me a choice.”
> 
> “You don’t know the concept of choice. You don’t allow it in yourself or others. There is always only one way. Only one, rigid, inflexible-“
> 
> “I would have liked to know I had a son.”


	5. Selina Kyle is [Almost] Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To call you was to awaken the past. I didn’t want to. I won’t apologise. He is … he is a good kid.”
> 
> “He seems it. I wouldn't know, would I?”

When I wake, it’s a relief. It feels as though I've been rung out. I'm more exhausted now then before. It's as though that lovely little beating and gunshot wound from Talia has made past _traumas_ rear their ugly little heads. Shit from my childhood. _Traumas_ that I’ve always denied existing. They've been waiting for me and in sleep they confront me. When I wake they are still there, looming. Silent screams that exist in memory, almost made tangible as I lie there. 

I throw the bed sheet off my sweat-ridden, cotton-pyjama clad body and stare at the dawn-lit room; the sun rise is sneaking in past the curtains.

I'm alone. Trapped in my own head.

Shit.

I cover my eyes with my hand.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

Focus.

Remember.

Bruce is back.

And all the things I’ve hidden, all the past I’ve tried to forget comes rushing back. I wasn’t good enough, remember? I’d got to the point – finally, finally got to the point where I was free of the Bats and the _angst_ that inevitably came with them. And then I was _brain washed_ into practically _killing myself_ by _freakin’_ Zatanna. And then I found Damian and we made a life in our own patch of Italy.

And now … and now I feel as though I’m back to square one.

No. Less then that. Which is illogical and emotional.

“Shit.”

I don’t know what to-

“You shouldn’t swear.”

I close my eyes and _don’t scream_.

“It is a bad influence on me, Kyle.”

I remove my hand, turn my head.

Damian Wayne has built himself a mound of blankets and is sitting like a pharaoh swathed in bed sheets on the floor.

“When did _you_ come in?” I ask.

“Last night,” he says.

“Last- _last night_?”

“Yes.”

Sitting up hurts but I do it anyway. Let my feet dangle over the edge of the bed. Stare at him.

“You okay, brat?”

“I must be prepared if you leave,” he says.

What the-

“I do not wish to be left behind.”

Oh.

I clear my throat. “If you think that I would take a bullet for you and then vanish without a trace, kid, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He continues to stare at me. Much in the manner of a cat that has heard your crap, is unimpressed, and wants a further clarification.

“When have I ever voluntarily left you?” I ask him.

“When we argued about the politics of Genghis Khan, when I punched my co-learner in the face for being an imbecile, when we argued over the position of Neptune, when I refused to go to bed because _someone_ was withholding ice-cream that was _mine rightfully­-“_

“Well, sue me! It was either that or toss you out of the window. _And may I add_ I only went to the _roof_. Going to the _roof_ does _not_ mean _leaving you_.”

“You went to the corner shop once.”

"I took you _with_ me."

"You did not _want_ to."

I have a sudden longing to shove my head under a pillow and _never leave it._ Clearly, we have some insecurities we need to address.

“Damian-”

“You don’t wish to stay.”

He still hasn’t so much as _twitched_.

 _This place isn’t a good one for me_ , I want to say. _It reminds me of too much. Of how I am lacking. Of how I am not enough. I’ve accepted that truth. I may not be good enough for them but who the bloody hell cares? I’m good enough for me. But, for the love of God, I want to leave. This isn’t my place. These aren’t my people. I’m a bone out of joint here. I can’t breathe. They’re going to turn you against me. It’s not just you and me anymore. Don't you see? This is bigger than us._

I want to open my mouth, I want to promise him that we will stay as long as he needs it.

But I can’t.

“No,” I say to him. “But this isn’t about _me_ , is it? As much as I would …" Oh this is hard. I want to snatch him up and leave. But that isn't the right thing, isn't it? "Listen, I’m not … I’m not your _parent_ , you know? Bruce _is_. And – this is _great_ for you – he wants to _be_ your parent. And you need to be able to get to know him.”

Good luck with _that_ , I want to add. But I don’t. Because Bruce Wayne _will_ get to know his son and _will_ love the crap out of him if I have to force him to do it.

“What is the plan?”

“I’ll talk to Bruce.”

It’s as much as I can do. I can’t promise anything more. Shit. Bruce was right to ask if _I_ was going to stay. He called it. He saw too much.

“Kid. Are you going to leave now so I can get dressed, or do you want a morning hug?”

I’m joking, of course. I’m not one of those people who can’t enter or leave a room without hugging every soul in it. Blech. I’ve hugged Damian perhaps three times. Tops.

So I’m a little stunned when Damian stands, his bedsheets falling to his feet. He pads over to the bed, sits next to me and rests his head on my shoulder.

I stop breathing and stare down at his head.

Is he- Is he _okay_?

“Are you okay?” I ask him. Should I … should I pat his head? Is that what parents do?

(Will Bruce care for him? Will he take the time?)

“Yes.”

“Right. Good to hear.”

“However, I find that I miss home,” he admits after a long moment.

I let out a long breath.

“Yeah. Me too, kid. Me too.” So much.

“I believe this display of affection can end now,” he says.

“Display of- oh very _funny.”_ I shove him gently on the shoulder. “Get out.”

He hops off to the bed.

“Take the blankets with you.”

He sighs and gathers them up.

“And remember to brush your teeth.”

A glare over his shoulder. “Tt. Would you perhaps like to remind me to breathe as well?” he inquires.

It’s like seeing the ghost of Alfred Pennyworth.

“You _scare_ me.”

He gives this _weird_ chuckle that sends _shivers of dread_ up my spine.

Bruce is a no show for breakfast. And for lunch. Damian explores the Manor whilst I lounge in the living room, on the comfortable couch. If I bury myself in some knitting … yeah, let’s forget I thought that sentence. Shit. _Selina Kyle_ AKA _Catwoman_ is attempting to _distract herself_ with _knitting_. 

(The thought is akin to a cat’s fur being brushed the wrong way.)

I do it anyway. The knitting, that is. I knit and I _concentrate_ and the world narrows down – if only for a little while. I knit even when I can feel Bruce Wayne enter the room.

He settles into the same armchair that Tim sat in.

“Selina.”

“Where’s Damian?” Did I drop another stitch?

“With Alfred.”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re still here.”

“Observant of you.”

“Can we call a truce?”

I look up at him then. He’s shaved. Looks better.

“Were we fighting?” I ask politely. “I wasn’t aware.”

Another silence. And then: “We need to finish our conversation from Slovenia. And-”

“Oh _meow._ Do remind me – was it the one where you accused me of kidnapping an _innocent_ child from his _perfect_ mother-“

“Selina.”

“-or the one where you accused me – there was a lot of accusation, Handsome, if you recall – of _hiding_ him from you and being an irresponsible adult.”

“Selina.”

“Because,” I am knitting so _well_ right now, it’s _shocking_. The needles click click click and my fingers are almost a blur. “If you recall our conversation it was _distinctively_ hostile and ended with you _commending_ me to wait for Alfred like some sort of _disobedient child_.”

“If you would _listen-“_

“Oh, I _listened_. And, for some reason that _completely_ eludes me, I _actually_ followed through with it. Way to treat a girl, Bruce. I’d applaud you if I wasn’t concentrating on this sweater.”

“Is that what it is?”

My eye twitches. I can feel it twitch. I look at the knitting needle in my hand and debate flinging it at him.

“I wouldn’t,” he says.

I shove the knitting down. Sit up straight. 

“I will allow that in Slovenia, for the two days you were there, I was not always _entirely_ in my right mind. You have two minutes to try again. I know; how _generous_ of me.”

His blue eyes are hard. “I didn’t _accuse_ you of taking Damian.”

I raise my eyebrow so high I think I sprain something.

“You did the right thing,” he says.

Words I never thought I’d hear him say: “Be still my beating heart.”

“You could have _told_ me.”

“You thought I was dead.”

“No,” he grinds out. “I did not.”

I ignore that little factoid for the time being. “He would have been raised to be a Robin. Oh, you wouldn’t have _meant_ it to happen. But it would have done. It’s like _gravity_. It’s inevitable. Anything in your sphere suddenly feels an irrepressible urge to don spandex. Except Alfred, of course. But who knows what _he_ does in his free time. But hell, Bruce. You _know_ what Gotham does to children.”

He is silent.

“That isn’t fair, Selina,” he says finally. “You could have given me a choice.”

“You don’t know the _concept_ of choice. You don’t _allow_ it in yourself or others. There is always only _one_ way. Only _one, rigid, inflexible-“_

“I would have _liked_ to know I had a son.”

And there it is.

I can’t actually dispute that one.

I do not drop his gaze. I don’t deflect. I could do. I have the past history of a thousand different encounters where I’ve done so and done it _well_.

But it feels different now.

I took a bullet for Damian. I can’t … I can’t sully _anything_ to do with him with my own issues. I have to _try_. I have to at least _try._

“I was not using him against you,” I say finally. “If you are _thinking_ – which I _know_ you are – that I was withholding him from you because of … of … I wasn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything at all. He just watches me. Provoking a confession that I don’t wish to make: “I was tired, Handsome. And I was officially _dead_. And it was _nice_.”

“Yes.”

“To call you was to awaken the past. I didn’t want to. I won’t apologise. He is … he is a good kid.”

“He seems it. I wouldn't know, would I?”

Another silence. I hate this. I can see him turn over possibility after possibility, creating contingency after contingency in his head.

“But I wouldn’t use him as a chess piece,” I spit out. “You need to know that. You should have seen him … when I found him, he was a _child_ who had been _beaten_. He was covered in _bruises_ and he was _alone_ lying on a stone slab of a bed. He was malnourished. And he hadn’t uttered a _noise._ Hadn’t even cried. I watched them train him. I’ve seen what you do with the Robins and it was _nothing_ like that. It was … it was _brutal_ , Bruce. It was _bloody_ brutal and he’s _just_ a little boy.” I clench my jaw. “You know what I am, or at least, you _think_ you know what I am. But whatever it is that you think of me – call me a thief, a traitor, a villain or a straight up bitch-“

“Selina.”

“-I couldn’t leave him there. And I wouldn’t use him against you. _You aren’t worth it_.”

“How can I believe you?”

There we are. There lies the crux of the matter.

“You can’t,” I lean back onto the couch. I don’t show my wince. I keep my pain from my face. _Show no weakness._ “I suppose you’ll have to take _a leap of faith_. Try it.”

“And why should I do that? You’ll be gone soon, and _my son_ with you.”

“And why wouldn’t we? This place is _so_ good for raising _healthy_ and _well-adjusted_ children.”

“You do the boys an injustice,” he grinds out. “And I will _not_ permit him leaving.” His voice is flat. Made of steel.

“Have you _asked_ him, what _he_ wants?”

“I haven’t had _time_.” He stands up. Shoves his hands in his pockets. Stares down at me. “What do you want me to do?”

“You’re his parent,” I say in a flat voice. “You have a right to him. Better you than _her._ Just …” I look away. I can’t meet his gaze. Not in this. Not when this feels like _begging_. “Let me be part of his life. As long as he wants me to. I promised him.”

There’s a small, slight sigh.

“Your apartment is still rented under your name.”

What the hell? I struggle to stand. He offers to help me but I stare at his hand until it drops. I can do it on my own.

“Why?” I demand.

“I never thought you were dead.”

“Yes. It’s becoming increasingly evident.”

“We’ll discuss that – later. When you’re in a better frame of mind.”

“ _Better frame of mind, my ass!_ ”

“You can be a part of his life,” Bruce says. “But I have conditions.”

My mother would have washed my mouth out with what I retort to _that_ lovely statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where have I been? Working. Writing. Reading. Apologies for the delay - thank you for continuing to read.
> 
> We're still at the Manor. HOW LONG WILL WE BE HERE? WHO KNOWS? DO WE HAVE ONE CHAPTER LEFT IN THESE HALLOWED HALLS? (Possibly.)
> 
> Until next time - same bat time, same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> (You should employ me, I mentally start the cover letter, because I haven’t yet murdered Bruce Wayne. I feel as though this shows great self-control and a good work ethic.)


End file.
